DOUGLAS wakened refreshed
and hopeful in the middle of the afternoon, rather abashed when he
discovered the sun was past the meridian; but this was an important epoch,
and "what was ane day in a body's hail life?"

He had not seen Phemie
since last night, and immediately thought he would go up through the
fields to Sandy's before going home. How sweet it would be, by-and-bye, to
not have to go 'cross lots to see Phemie! As if the thinking of her had
brought her before him, he could soon see the flutter of her sun-bonnet,
flitting in and out among the plum-trees (for chickens must eat, though
hearts break). Quickening his steps, he was beside her before she was
aware of it.

"Phemie! Phemie! " he
cried, eagerly.

Phemie at first tried to
reach the house and a sheltering room, before he caught her; but to no
purpose. He came up to and in front of her, looking into the depths of her
sun-bonnet. What he saw there staggered him; he stopped to get breath, and
to know what to say (we have written he was a lad of few words). She sped
past him, and gained the desired shelter.

"Phemie'll ne'er unsay 'r
word, Jean." Going to the door of the room he called his mother; there was
no answer ; then he tried the door—it was, as Jean said, barred. He called
again ; still no reply. Putting his foot to the door, with a quick burst
he opened it. Margaret sat in a rocking chair, knitting; hard lines on her
face, and a somewhat triumphant look in her eyes. She looked up, not
heeding the unceremoniousness of Douglas' entrance.

Margaret sprang up at this,
realizing what she had done, but, changing her mind, sat down again ; and
Douglas, fearing what he might say if he remained longer, went up to his
own room.

Jean followed him. Sitting
down—he was too weak to stand—he bowed his head on the table, and shed the
tears a man sheds when his heart is wrung past endurance. Jean knelt
beside him, and mingled her tears with his.

"Dinna greet—dinna greet,
Douglas," soothed Jean, as she had done in their not-so-far-past
childhood, her own tears falling like rain.

By-and-bye, when they could
cry no longer, Jean got Douglas' promise to wait until morning. Many times
through the night she slipped in to see how he fared.

At supper-time Jamie had to
know. Margaret was going round her housewife duties, tightly compressed
lips and rigid face giving no sign of the tumult within. Jean, knowing
Jamie must be told that Douglas was upstairs and would not come down, met
him on his way from the barn and explained something of the situation.
Dike most men, Jamie did not like scenes; up to the present time his life
had had an unusually even tenor; therefore this was very upsetting. He
blamed everybody—first and foremost, the girl for living; then Douglas,
for caring for her; Margaret, for saying what she did when she did; Phemie,
for paying any attention to what Margaret had said ; Douglas, for taking
Phemie at her word; and, lastly, Jean, for not preventing the whole
affair.

A United States President
once remarked regarding a national matter: "It is a condition, and not a
theory, that confronts us." There was a condition, and a serious one, now
facing Jamie, and he finally pulled himself together and braced up for it.
A look at Margaret's face showed him she did not need comforting: she was
glorying in her triumph. As Douglas had not immediately rushed out of the
house, she concluded he had thought better of going. She knew Phemie would
hold to her word. Matters were turning out very satisfactorily. Therefore,
although the medicine was drastic and would cause the patient some
inconvenience, yet it was effectual, and she was feeling the pride of a
physician successful in a particularly serious case.

When he saw Douglas,
Jamie's heart smote him. Perhaps had he come down and talked with Margaret
when the lad first spoke to him (this time honestly fixing the blame where
it really belonged), all would have been well.

When this was announced to
Margaret, she must have felt as the above-mentioned physician might when
forced to take some of his own medicine in order to induce confidence in
his patient. Jamie was firm in his promise that the lad should go if he
wished to. She had conquered, but at a heavy cost to herself.

Douglas bade his mother
good-bye next morning, but she would almost rather he hadn't—there was so
much of reproach, so little trace of the old affection. She was stung to
the quick, still she gave no sign, and, after he was gone, for long months
she scarcely spoke of him. Yet, though she too had to share the bitter
draught, she did not regret having mixed it. "Douglas was her lad still;
driven from home he might feel himself; his heart torn with grief, and a
deep sense of wrong and of anger against her; yet he was hers—this she
could roll as a sweet morsel under her tongue : evil might befall him in
his exile—this other woman could not be his comforter; he even might die
in this land far away—the lassie couldna hae first place at his coffin."

These were comforting
thoughts to Margaret, and in all that followed she never made a wry face
at the bitterness of her own share from the cup.

Jean, too, who was neither
patient nor physician, had to drink. Philip Maxwell came that evening,
bringing some chemical apparatus to show an experiment that was
interesting him.

"I will just arrange this,"
he said, "and then wait until your brother comes in; and will we have to
send word to Miss McGregor? Perhaps I had better go and fetch her."

Jean could not tell him
that Phemie would never come again; she could not say to him, "Do not go
for her"; yet it seemed cowardly to leave Phemie to account for the
estrangement. Sandy truly said, the very least wrong has a wide-spreading
influence.

The question as to Douglas
was answered by Jamie, who just now came in.

"Th' lad's off fur Taranta,"
said he, quite cheerfully, partly through not sensing the gravity of the
situation, and partly through a Highland desire to put the best foot
forward.

"Indeed! I believe I had
not known of his intention to make the trip," said Philip.

Philip had noticed
Margaret's grim smile when he spoke of Phemie, and drew a conclusion which
pleased him very much, and was, in effect, that Douglas had gone out to
carve a better future for Phemie to share than apparently offered itself
on the Ninth Line. He quickly decided the kindest way was to leave Phemie
to her own meditations on this first evening of Douglas' absence. So Jean
was granted a respite; he left the apparatus at Jamie's, and thoughtfully
took an early leave.

"Hoo's th' brown colt th'
morn?" asked Jamie of Sandy next morning. Sandy must have suddenly become
deaf, for he made no reply.

Solemnly the two men
clasped hands across the log that constituted the line; a lump in each
man's throat choked him, and, each fearing to have the other see the
moisture under his eyelids, turned and silently walked away.

The fence was put up, each
man doing his share of the work when the other was in the back fields. The
summer was getting well worn away. Rob did not come back for the harvest,
but wrote his father to get a man for extra work, and he would pay him.
The estrangement fell hard on Jean and Phemie; many times in the night
each would waken with a sense of some trouble overwhelming them ; the
first thought on awakening would invariably be to go to the other for
comfort, and the sadness would be intensified when fully roused to the
situation.

Jamie was the more patient
with Margaret in the matter, through feeling that a word from him in time
would have set matters right. Jamie, though slow of perception, was the
soul of honor, and he felt that, had he done by his lad as he would wish
to have been done by, the whole affair might have had a different ending;
but his Scotch love of teasing got the better of him, with disastrous
consequences to more than one. As if by common consent, the incident—even
the existence of the other family—ceased to be mentioned. One thing Jamie
insisted on: Sandy should not be driven out of his church. St. Andrew's
had been their home for many years. So Margaret, Jamie and Jean went to
Smith's Falls; it was a twelve miles drive, but the trips seemed to have a
wonderfully soothing effect on his mind: yet, stern Protestant that he
was, he would not liked to have had it called doing penance. To Mr.
Romaine he told—taking as much blame to himself as possible—what happened,
as he must give a satisfactory explanation for leaving St. Andrews. Mr.
Wilson also was made a confidant. Jean finally told Mr. Maxwell, because
there was no way of getting rid of doing so. Everyone else was left to
draw their own conclusions, which, of course, everyone did—no two exactly
alike, and no one absolutely correct.

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